The Ratulangi Files
by The StoryEater
Summary: Some trainers want to be Champions. Others want to be coordinators. A few dream of becoming professors. But one weirdo decided to beat up bad guys and collect their bounties for a living. These are the case files of Dwight Ratulangi, Bounty Hunter.


**Case File #267**

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 _Azalea Town, Johto, Saturday 7:00 PM_

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The doors of the _Dancing Pikachu_ swung open. Greg Kinney looked up from behind the bar. Vacation season was months away, and business was slow in his restaurant. Every single customer was valuable these days.

First thing he noticed was the dark-blue tracksuit. It was so covered with grease stains and dirt that wearing it seemed almost criminal. White Crocs sandals and a neon green fanny pack completed the obnoxious ensemble.

Its owner didn't seem self-conscious at all. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, with unkempt oily black hair and tanned skin covered with unshaven stubble. He had a narrow face and high cheekbones, eyes the color of unflushed toilet water. The expression on his face was alert, but decidedly bored. A lit cigarette hung loose from his lips.

"Excuse me, sir?" Greg called out, pointing to the sign by the window. "I'm sorry, but you can't do that in here. This restaurant is a smoke-free zone!"

The slob glanced over, then shrugged. He dropped the cigarette and ground it underneath his sandal, leaving a gray smear all over the freshly scrubbed floor.

"May I help you with something?" Greg asked through a clenched teeth. "A drink menu? A quick takeout, perhaps?"

But the slob wasn't listening. He wordlessly scanned the restaurant until his eyes landed on a table, then shuffled over.

The two occupants of the table looked up as a tall shadow fell over them. He was skeletally thin, with long torso locked in a perpetual slouch. Rank smell of cigarettes still clung to his tracksuit.

"What do you want?" One of the customers snapped, a young businessman in an expensive looking black suit and a red tie. His blonde hair was gelled into a fashionable sweep, with rimless hipster glasses to match. The slob stared back for another few seconds.

"Donald Purmt."

His flat voice had a slight rasp to it, presumably from too many cigarettes. He sounded just like he looked—unbearably bored.

The businessman scowled. "Who?"

"Your name is Donald Purmt."

"I thought your name was Jake!" the other customer leaned over and whispered, a teenage brunette dressed in cute and trendy outdoor outfit favored by young trainers. She looked just as repelled by the slob's intrusion as her companion.

"It _is_ ," the businessman replied, before turning back to the slob. "I'm sorry. I don't know who you are, but you clearly have the wrong person! Now, please, leave us alone!"

"Umm, sir?"

Seeing the young trainer's pleading look, Greg quickly stepped out from behind the bar. He didn't care who this weirdo was. No one was going to drive away his customers!

"Sir, I need you to leave my restaurant immediately!" Greg snarled, letting little bit of his anger seep into his voice. "Otherwise, I'm going to call the police!"

Curious faces of his kitchen staff peeked out over the counter. The busboys stopped clearing the tables to stare.

Still, the slob didn't act as if he heard. Instead, he looked at the girl.

"Did he offer to sell you evolution stones at a steep discount? Around thirty percent below the retail price?"

The girl froze, as did the businessman. Her look of annoyance turned into startled surprise.

"Well, did he?"

"Y-yes. How—"

"Did he also tell you that if you invest half of your money now, he would mail you stones that could evolve Eevee into Glaceon and Leafeon?"

She merely nodded, struck dumb. The businessman, meanwhile, has grown deathly pale.

"What-what's going on here?" Greg shouted, feeling his confidence ebb.

The slob looked at the business man again.

"Your name is Donald Purmt," he repeated. "Wanted in Kanto and four cities in Hoenn for altogether thirty counts of fraud, embezzlement, trafficking of banned substances, identity theft, grand larceny, and impersonation of a police officer. There's a nine thousand dollar bounty on your head, placed by the Hoenn police."

"Those stone samples he just showed you are fake, by the way," he told the trainer. "Plastic replicas, sold at the Celadon City mall, two dollars a pop."

The exposed con-man went from pale to red with rage. He leapt out of the chair, a Pokéball clutched in his right hand.

"You should've minded your own business, you smelly freak!" he shrieked. "Teach him a lesson, Crusher!"

A Charmeleon burst out with a white flash, flexing its sharp claws. The fire lizard Pokémon glared at the slob, fire-tipped tail aggressively swinging from side to side.

Greg, his staff, and the young trainer all shuffled back in alarm. The slob, meanwhile, had just finished putting on a pair of fingerless exercise gloves. Rummaging through his fanny pack, he plucked out a Pokéball of his own and tossed it.

Greg waited with dread as the white flash materialized. Whatever it was, it would have be a powerful creature. Something destructive enough to burn down his restaurant, and put him out of business forever.

A large fish Pokémon flopped helplessly on the floor. Greg had to blink twice to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

 _A Magikarp. A bloody, freaking Magikarp._

Donald the con-man burst into a hysterical laughter, clutching at his belly and doubling over.

"Oh, you had me worried there for a second!" he howled, shaking uncontrollably. "This is rich! Just what kind of an _idiot_ uses a Magikarp in a Pokémon battle?!"

He was so busy laughing, that he failed to see the slob bend down and lift up the Magikarp by its tail fin.

"I'm not interested in a battle."

Donald opened his eyes just as the Magikarp slammed into his face. Twenty-two pounds of rock-hard scale and fish meat struck him across the cheek, dislocating his jaw and shattering his glasses. The force of the impact lifted Donald off his feet and sent him crashing into an empty table.

The con-man stirred, eyes wide with shock, spitting strangled moans and loose teeth. His attempts to crawl away ended with another solid blow to the head.

The entire restaurant stood still as the slob rolled the unconscious Donald onto his stomach and secured him with a plastic cuff. The Charmeleon let out a soft growl, unsure of what to do next.

"Get the hell out before I smack you," the slob deadpanned.

The Charmeleon looked at Donald, then to the Magikarp clutched in the slob's hand. It panted slowly, unblinking, without a single mark left on its body.

The fire lizard Pokémon whirled around and promptly fled out of the restaurant.

The slob stood up, his Magikarp back in his fannypack, dragging Donald by one leg behind him. "There are no evolution stones for Glaceon or Leafeon," he grunted to the shaken trainer. "If you still want one, get yourself a ticket to Sinnoh."

"Feel free to call the cops, if you want," he continued, turning to Greg. "It'll make my job easier. Besides, I have a valid license."

"Who-who are you?!" Greg stammered.

"Dwight Ratulangi," the slob handed him a beige calling card. "Bounty Hunter. Hit me up if you ever need to track down someone. Or collect some debt. Or mess a guy up just for laughs."

Greg stared at it, barely registering a phone number, an email address and a name written in plain black ink.

"But…but, sir…why a _Magikarp_?"

Dwight paused at the door, then shrugged.

"They were having a sale."

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 **R &R!**

 **PM me with bounty requests for Dwight, sent from a fictional character of your choosing.**


End file.
